Fox Company, France, 1944
by Poddy
Summary: A Day of Defeat: Source fanfic, following the men of Fox Company throughout their engagements in warfare, violence and bravery.


(A/n) Well, this is my second foray into this section, with my first one being based upon the Counter-Strike mod for Half-Life which apparently went down pretty well. This time round, I've set my sights on Day of Defeat: Source, another mod that Valve swiftly took under it's wing and 'sourcified', personally I loved this game, and did think about writing a fanfic for it a while ago, but it was just rubbish and so I scrapped it. The story is intended to have several chapters for each map, with the first ones being centred around dodArgentan, which again is a personal favourite of mine, and a map that I instantly had ideas for from the start. Unlike Day of Defeat however, I'm again trying my hand at introducing characters to the story, and having many of them running through the entire story, with some of them making it, and some of them not. This first chapter won't feature any combat, it has a much heavier emphasis on the character building aspect of the story, something which I am currently playing around with varying degrees of success, I think this one is good though :) Anyways I've rambled on far too long now, so with further ado, here's:

Chapter 1: Calm Before the Storm

Read, review and enjoy :)

16th of June 1944.

Normandy, France – 0745hours

Thick, grey clouds hovered ominously over Normandy that day, swollen and fit to burst. Shrouding the horizon with their presence, everything except the Argentan station, a once lively and vibrant part of the rural scenery, the social counterpoint around which travellers and townsfolk alike thrived. Now the station stood as a broken and war-ravaged shell; craters littered the area, artillery from both sides rendered the scene a bruised and pimpled ruin. Few buildings stood untarnished, with the occasional bar or shop still showing their products in the front windows, that's if they were lucky enough to still have glass intact; the sheer force alone of an artillery strike is enough to shake a building to its foundations.

However, no structure stood taller than the Argentan clock tower, its face frozen in time, whether it was from the first shell or even one sporadic, direct hit that rendered it useless for months to come. Its looming silhouette stood as the only landmark for miles around, the only sign of an objective, a worthwhile cause, something the Invaders could finally claim as their own.

The clouds finally surrendered to their insufferable loads, starting first as a drizzle, before quickly morphing into a downpour. The hefty raindrops smattered the ground below, marring the distant sound of war with a gentle ambience that coated the surroundings. The rain hit the rusted and warped train tracks draped over the plentiful crests with a loud tap, amplifying the noise by a few decibels. The tracks and carriages were also victims of intense barrages; some of them completely uprooted and then replanted metres from where they once lay. Abnormal twists and bends in the tracks made them tricky enough to traverse on foot, and obviously impossible for any locomotives.

Further down the ruined track, there lay an overturned freight carriage, the boxed cargo lay strewn over the surrounding knoll, with the majority already smashed open and robbed of all their valuable or practical contents. Signs of combat had already appeared upon it, with noticeable chunks and holes along both sides, whether it was an ambush by German troops warding off civilians, or a forgotten tale of Paratroopers from the days before – landing in darkness, becoming entangled and surrounded, forced to fight their way out or be crushed.

Rain still pelted the ground; the steep uphill slopes became more treacherous by the second, mud merging with rain, transforming the already damp craters into small pools of brown water. The crumbling edges of the crater finally dismantled all structure to the slopes and flats they were placed upon, the incessant torrents of water turning it into a treacherous, muddy hill. The paved areas of Argentan lay far less tarnished, with occasional brick or slab laying a top the worn roads, which themselves looked compressed, but not completely disfigured. Likewise the several surrounding buildings, many of which still stood, were largely intact, providing a glimpse into the once quaint backdrop of Normandy.

The one building untouched however, was the windmill. Still rotating, its sturdy arms had clearly withstood the heavy fighting and artillery, a prominent sign of defiance in the face of war.

Perhaps not so, to Pvt. Mike 'Skinny' Walkers:

"Wow, I always wanted to visit Holland" he murmured under his breath as he flicked the remainder of his cigarette into a freshly formed puddle. The rain drummed its fingers on his helmet, running down it before dripping off the rim and onto his punctured and worn poncho. Skinny clasped his pale and fragile hands together, when he was distracted by a muffled laugh from inside the tent to his right.

Corporal Morton hurriedly forced a new 8-round clip into his M1, pressing it until he heard a satisfying 'clack', before closing the chamber with the side of his palm and raising the same hand in the air, with a blatant look of the smugness on his face.

"And _that_ is how it's done, ladies." He claimed arrogantly. "Now my rifle's clean, locked, loaded and ready to kill some Krauts. You two could learn a thing or two from that display."

"Yeah, it's just a shame you can't shoot the fuckin' thing" Pvt. Green remarked, before looking over to Palin with a raised eyebrow and a smile. Cpl. Morton did not look so amused, nor did Pvt. Palin, who was irritably trying to ignite his lighter in front of the cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Ah, piece of shit thing." He said before throwing it the ground and breathing a heavy sigh. Green and Morton exchanged a puzzled glance for a split second, before looking back towards Palin.

"Hey, err, hasn't Skinny got that lighter he stole from that Tank Gunner?" Morton asked, before poking his head in between the opening flaps of the tent and into the rain.

"Hey Skinny!" Morton shouted, "Palin needs that lighter you stole from that Tank Gunner!" His eyes squinted as he saw Skinny's tall and skinny figure turn to face him.

"I told you George, don't call me that" Skinny smirked as he reached into his pocket for the lighter. "Next time I really will have to kill you" Skinny said with false sincerity as he tossed the lighter towards Morton's out-stretched hand. Skinny also began to trudge towards the tent himself, his muddy boots slapping the wet mud beneath his feet.

Morton swung his head back into the tent, already water was dripping off the sides of his helmet. Tossing the lighter towards Palin –who failed to catch it in his sombre state of mind – Morton moved along his impromptu couch of bangalores to make room for Skinny, who entered soaking wet and shivering from the cold.

"Besides, that guy basically gave me that lighter anyway" Skinny remarked as he sat down, gently laying his M1 Carbine down on the floor.

"Is that what you call getting your legs blown off by an 88?" asked Morton with stern look on his face. "That is a new low." He added, before reaching for a cigarette of his own.

"You know you were lucky to get away from that blast y'know. I ain't never seen a Sherman go up like that before." Said Green.

"Yeah don't worry, Alan. I think we all saw it" Palin bleakly interrupted after finally lighting the cigarette in his mouth. He looked up to pass the lighter back to Skinny, before realising that the other men in the tent were staring at him with slightly concerned looks upon their faces.

Skinny quickly broke the ensuing silence. "Jesus Palin, I swear you never used to smoke back in England."

"That's his fifth this morning, and it's not even 8 o' clock!" Green exclaimed as he quickly checked his wrist watch.

"You nervous then or what?" Skinny asked with a playfully curious glance.

Palin took a long drag on his cigarette, his cheeks visually compressing as he stared at the brightening embers. He mixed his exhalation with a sigh, a dense cloud of smoke billowing from his lips as he began to speak. "I dunno, today feels weird for some reason. Every day since we landed, I've, well, we've...something bad's always happened, right in front of us y'know? Like, last week with the Sherman, then losing the Captain the day before-"

"Heh, I'm sure Sheppard didn't mind that" Morton quietly interjected as he looked up towards Green and Skinny, who both replied with an insincere smirk, blank expressions on their faces.

Palin continued his ominous gripe: "I mean...just we haven't seen any action in about 5 days now. You don't think it's about time we saw some action, or you know, at least did _something_? Seriously, don't you think?" He quickly snatched the cigarette from his mouth as he looked up expectantly at the other men, hoping to at least receive a compliant response.

"I think youthink too much" Skinny remarked whilst reaching for his Carbine.

"Amen to that" Green replied.

The rain still bore down heavily on the troops stationed at the bottom of Argentan. The makeshift CP and defensive line looked pitiful in the face of countless enemies entrenched in the nearby town, with meagre walls of sandbags and two 30. Calibre machine-guns becoming the extent of the American defence.

Lt. Sheppard and Sgt. Hirst both sub-consciously prayed that common sense would not prevail in the face of their blatant weakness, and both were equally puzzled that the Germans had not launched a counter-offensive that would easily crush the invaders below. Instead the unbearable tension of _not _attacking or being attacked played more heavily on the minds of the troops than the appalling weather and the lack of K-rations and ammunition.

"So that's why we gotta hit _them_ before they hit _us_!" Lt. Sheppard stated firmly, snapping his gaze towards Sgt. Hirst for a response.

Hirst simply nodded, to which Lt. Sheppard scowled as he turned back to look at the map sprawled upon the table in front of the pair. The map made little sense to the untrained eye, a mass of red scribbles and sketches laid upon varying roads and fields, all of which were a feeble attempt to recreate a more detailed environment, one that was already ultimately destroyed. The most notable addition to the map was the town of Argentan; encircled in red (as was the military fashion) with several crosses and arrows pointing directly towards the town centre. Other small hamlets and villages that were once circled has now been crossed through, captured and completed, but neither dared to look ahead on the map, as they knew very well that all that lay ahead would be more destroyed towns, more decimated buildings, more fighting, more violence.

"How many Krauts are we talking, sir?" Hirst asked watchfully.

Sheppard paused for a moment, pretending to still navigate his tattered map, which had previously belonged his former CO: Captain Evans. "Well, I'll put it this way" Sheppard said softly "We sent a recon unit towards the outskirts yesterday at 1400hours. The squad returned this morning, except with 2 men MIA, and 8 men KIA." He quickly glanced to see Hirst's reaction, but the Sergeant retained his concerned expression. Gradually he nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and breathing out heavily.

"Sadly I don't choose the time or the place, Sergeant" Sheppard said as he neatly folded his map and then crudely jammed in into his top left pocket. "Now, I need you to brief the men. They're in that tent over by those hay bales." Sheppard pointed but Hirst didn't bother looking, he had already heard Morton's high-pitched laugh emitted from it enough time to know exactly where he was.

Sgt. Hirst saluted his superior, before wheeling around and facing his men's tent, and the torrents of rain. He hesitated in the doorway of the CP, a small barn, complete with a table, haystacks, and a radio. The rain seemed fitting for such a backdrop Hirst thought, as he leaned out of the door and peered into the dreary, grey sky. He didn't have a good feeling about this one, the weather, the situation, the CO, in his 10 days of combat; this is the only one that felt different, ominous, as if there was something other than Germans in Argentan that was ready to fight them. Maybe they were already being fought? Being played havoc with in the minds of the anxious soldiers, twice in five days they had been told they were attacking, only to be halted minutes before the assault and told to wait for an armoured company to help assist them. Twice the support never arrived, and the platoon went back to impatiently waiting for the next order to advance.

The reason for Hirst's cynicism was obvious, not least due to a barely competent Lieutenant, whose promotion was only justified by a lucky ricochet from a distant sniper. Dwindling supplies, lack of support and just recently graced with the news of an annihilated recon squad, Hirst was far from optimistic. "Fubar" he muttered inaudibly, as the rain atop of the barn roof clattered with a deafening resonance.

Hirst slung his Thompson sub-machinegun over his right shoulder and donned his helmet with his left hand, shuffling it on his scalp until he felt the familiarly snug fit, the same from boot camp all those years ago.

His heavy combat boots squelched through the soft earth, as he trudged over towards the comparatively cosy tent his men had spent the last 5 days inside of. Once more he heard the shrill laugh of Morton followed by a small puff of smoke ejected from inside. Hirst quickly ran through his briefing in his mind, it would be the third time his men would have heard the orders, but it got harder every time, harder to convince his men that they were in safe hands, that their Army wouldn't fail them, and more importantly, neither would he.

"Sarge!" came a cry from Hirst's left. The sergeant squinted as the figure completely masked by the rain leapt over a thin line of sandbags and squeezed between two privates moving towards the CP.

"That you Corporal?" Hirst asked as the figure came into view and Cpl. Bailey's distinctly huge figure came into full view. Bailey turned to face the two men he had barged through, casually saluting them as he moved towards his NCO.

"Mornin' Sergeant!" Cpl. Bailey said as he slowed his slow jog to a normal walking pace alongside Hirst. "Beautiful day for a war don'cha think?" Bailey grinned as he offered Hirst a cigarette from his pocket along with a lighter. If there was anyone who could at least purse a smile on Hirst's lips, it was Cpl. Bailey, a stocky young 20 year old, whose origins were deeply rooted in the southern states of the US, giving him the physical attributes of ox, but granting him a somewhat limited amount of intelligence, which probably amounted to his ability to look at everything in a positive light, regardless of the situation.

Hirst managed a smile as he paused to light his cigarette, using his hand as cover from the wind; the lighting spark provided a split second of warmth, something unfamiliar to the men, despite the time of year.

"So, what's the news today, sir?" Bailey asked the same as every morning, somewhat oblivious to his own repetition. He quickly looked Hirst up and down, noting his weapon, helmet and plentiful equipment, including several sub-machinegun magazines.

"Well follow me and you'll find out" Hirst replied as he took a welcomed drag on his cigarette, nodding towards the tent at the same time. Bailey simply nodded back as they traipsed through the mud to the rest of the men.

(A/n) Well there you go, there will be some action coming up don't worry, as I said before: this chapter is spent trying to build up characters, so if you can already remember all the character's names, give yourself a cookie! :) If I get some positive reviews I'll definately continue with this one :) Thanks


End file.
